List of Needs
by Dala1
Summary: (L/R) A few years, another bar . . .


Disclaimer: all the characters below belong to Marvel. They're just on loan.  
Author's Note: This idea stemmed in part because I got tired of writing poor-innocent-Rogue stories.  
  
  
He can feel her the instant she walks into the bar.  
  
She's with friends, the teenagers he remembers--but no, they're not teenagers anymore; she turned twenty-one this year. They take a table at the back, away from his barstool, and make as much noise as the rest of the denizens put together. Laughing, yelling, telling raucous jokes, and getting fairly drunk.  
  
It was foolish to come this close to Westchester. He hunches over his beer, telling himself that he should go, because the ladies bathroom is just to his right and she's bound to go in there eventually, bound to notice him. But he doesn't move.  
  
Straining his sensitive ears, he can just barely pick up her laugh. Against his better judgment he turns surreptitiously to look. She's wearing a green blouse, the scarf absent from her neck, and leaning against a tall youth with a French accent. He wonders idly if the boy has ever felt the deadly kiss of steel through his innards, and rubs his knuckles thoughtfully.  
  
But she's happy. Even from here he can feel that, sense it. Though the bar is crowded, she doesn't give off that nervous air like she used to around so many people; she's more relaxed than he ever imagined possible.  
  
Shit, one of the girls is getting up, and where one goes, the rest will follow. He tosses some money on the counter and ducks out through the door, into a light rain.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
She pauses as she reaches the stool he's just vacated. It isn't the same as his abilities, she can't smell him or anything, but still . . . she feels strange.  
  
"C'mon, Rogue." Jubilee holds open the bathroom door, and she reluctantly turns and enters.  
  
But as they make their way back to the table, she can't seem to shake this feeling. It's making her a bit dizzy, and she grips Remy's arm as their food arrives, suddenly nauseous.  
  
He leans close, eyes worried. "You alright, chere?"  
  
She nods, then shakes her head.   
  
Bobby notices and chuckles. "I think Rogue's just had too much to drink." She looks at the single unfinished beer in front of her.  
  
"Yeah," she says, putting a hand to her temple, "that must be it. I think I'll go get some fresh air." Grabbing her coat, she walks out, savoring the cool dampness under the shelter of the bar's awning.  
  
A man stands just beyond it, letting the rain soak through to his skin. She snorts and wonders how crazy you have to be to stand out in the rain, but suddenly her eyes narrow. She recognizes him before her brain has time to process the information.  
  
"Logan?"  
  
At the sound of that soft, breathy voice he freezes.  
  
She pulls up her hood and steps forward hesitantly. "It . . . it's me--"  
  
"I know." The harsh sound of his voice makes her frown, hurt. But as he turns around she forgives him. For a man who can't get physically sick, he looks terribly unwell. He's lost weight, and there are deep shadows behind his eyes.  
  
She doesn't realize it, but he's sizing her up in much the same way. The years have been far better to her.  
  
Tugging on her hood, she looks down, and he feels a little more easy. The shyness is something he remembers, something familiar. "What're you doing here?"  
  
"Not much." She notices that he's shivering, and steps closer, worried. Cold affects him almost as little as it does Bobby.  
  
She reaches out to touch his arm, but stops as he flinches away. "Logan, what's wrong?"  
  
God, those eyes, big and concerned, those full lips made wet by the rain . . . He holds himself still and doesn't answer, afraid of what he might do if she comes any closer.   
  
"Where are you staying?" He shrugs, and she starts to offer to take him back to the mansion, but the look in his eyes halts that idea. Still, she can't leave him out in the rain like this.  
  
"Come on," she says, indicating her car. "I'll take you to a hotel or something." He hesitates, and she adds, "Please, Logan."  
  
So he follows her, and they drive in silence. There's a Holiday Inn a few miles down the road, and she pulls in there. He still hasn't said a word, lets her pull out a credit card and hand it to the man behind the desk. It's only then he notices that she isn't wearing gloves.  
  
She sees his frank stare, and smiles. "I've been able to control it for over a year now. Takes some effort, but it's worth it."  
  
His throat works with some emotion she can't read, and he reaches out to brush a finger against the back of her hand. It sends an electric thrill through her body, and she holds back a gasp.  
  
When they reach the room, he sinks down onto the bed, staring at the wall. Trying to avoid her eyes. But she's always been stubborn and she kneels before him, grabbing his chin so he can't look away.  
  
There are tears in his eyes, much to her surprise. She stands and holds him close, letting him press his face to her stomach, shoulders shaking. Running her fingers through his wet hair, she says nothing for a long time.  
  
With a desperate need, he pulls her down beside him and descends on her mouth, kissing her hard and fierce, hands tightening on her waist. She's surprised, but responds eagerly to the kiss, forgetting everything but the heat of his mouth and the light in his eyes.  
  
He pulls away, contrite and breathing heavily. "I'm sorry, Marie, I don't know what I . . ."  
  
She puts a finger to his lips and whispers, "Shhh." Wanting both to comfort him and ease the growing ravage of need coursing through her body, she pushes him back on the bed and pulls his shirt over his head, unbuttons his jeans. He doesn't try to stop her, only says her name again in a soft, broken tone.  
  
"It's alright now," she murmurs, dropping kisses all over his face. "Relax, Logan. Let me take the pain away, just for a little while."  
  
He wants to protest, say that she shouldn't sully herself for his sake, but now her clothes are on the floor beside them and God, he can't utter anything except a moan as she slides onto him. There have been scenes like this in his dreams for longer than he cares to admit, but her hands are never this sure, this skillful, and the legs straddling around his hips are never so well-defined and muscled.   
  
And in fantasies, he's always on top. So as it's the only thing he can control and he's too far gone to want to stop, he rolls her over and drives into her with fervor. She cries out, digging her nails into his shoulder, and knows there are bruises forming on her thighs. But the same primal force is moving them both, the need for touch and solace and release, and she can't help but surrender to it. They come together, collapse shaking and sweating onto the bed, and he pulls her into his arms tight, trying to tell her in embrace and kiss what he can't bring himself to say. Her hands lock onto his forearms, wrapped around her from behind, and she presses her lips to one set of knuckles.  
  
"I know, Logan," she whispers into the darkness. The man at her back is already drifting into the most serene sleep he's felt in years.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
She wakes up because the bed is cold around her, something it hasn't been for a long time.  
  
He's sitting on the edge of it, unmoving. She pulls a tangled sheet around her shoulders and scoots over, slipping her arms around his waist, pleased that he doesn't flinch.  
  
They're quiet for a long time. Just as she begins to wonder what it is he finds so damned interesting about that wall, he speaks.  
  
"I'm sorry."   
  
She sighs, leaning her head against his shoulder. "If you're apologizing for tonight, save your breath. You're not the only consenting adult here, Logan."  
  
"No." He squeezes her hand. "I should thank you for tonight. I'm apologizing for staying away so long."  
  
"It's okay." Somewhere inside she laughs at herself, because she's spent lots of time preparing angry speeches to rail at him and not a one of them includes forgiveness. But she abandons them because she understands, because she's been inside his head and knows what it took for him to even admit there was anything to stay away from. To run away from.   
  
"You were in love with me." It's a statement, not a question, and she wonders why he's said it.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Are you still?"  
  
She pauses, thinking about everything that's happened in the past four years, every day he didn't call, every birthday he missed, the day she finally managed to control her mutation and went to find someone else to celebrate with, because he wasn't there. It'll take awhile to forgive him for that, but she knows it will come with time. All she responds is, "I don't know."  
  
He nods slowly, relieved. It's not a 'yes', but it's not a 'no' either, and it certainly isn't the 'fuck you' he deserves.  
  
There's more he wants to say, more she should know, but he can't say it quite yet. They have time. He'll make sure of that.  
  
So he turns around and kisses her instead, slow and soft this time, and gently lowers himself over her again. He notices that she tries not to wince when his hand brushes between her legs.  
  
"Sore?"  
  
"No," she replies, lying through her teeth, knowing that he can tell anyway.  
  
He chuckles, a low rumble in his throat, and says quietly, "I'll be gentle." And he is, stroking her so lightly and loving her so slowly that she isn't sure the sighs she hears are coming from their lips or their joined flesh.  
  
When it's over he holds her close again, and as she drifts off to sleep she doesn't worry about what the Professor will think, how this is going to make Remy feel, what she'll say to get Logan to tell her what he found at Alkali Lake that tore him to such pieces. On her list of needs, they aren't at the top. Logan is, and despite all the emotional baggage he brings she figures he'll stay there for a very long time.  
  
  
Another Note: I *will* write something explaining what was at Alkali Lake. I think. 


End file.
